


Reason and Pride

by Anonymous



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bittersweet Ending, Blow Jobs, Fourth Age, Frottage, Lonely Old Men, M/M, Maglor Fucks Up, Rimming, Trust Issues, frienemies with benefits, this surprises no one except perhaps for the characters themselves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 14:03:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11381721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: As the Elves' exodus from Middle Earth begins moving more swiftly with the advent of the Fourth Age, two very different but equally lonely souls find unexpected comfort in each other, for a time.In spite of reason, they are drawn together; because of pride, they are torn apart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Technically this began life as a fill for the Silmarillion Kink Meme, which I’ve cleaned up a bit since - but also it’s something I had at least half-written on gdocs long before I ever saw the prompt in question.
> 
> Which is to say that I have been on board this trash ship for far longer than I will ever willingly admit to anyone, ever.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this. And also come join me in the tiny!ship hell pit. (I’m so lonely)

Before he sailed, Elrond asked a favour.

“I know that within the century, many ships shall take leave of Middle-Earth. Our time here is ending, and almost all answer the Westward call, at last.”

Círdan said nothing. He suspected he knew where Elrond’s thoughts were leading, but he wanted confirmation.

“There is one still out there who will never believe that the call is also meant for him, if he is not told,” Elrond said. “I know you know how to find him, if need be. Will you go to him, and bring him word for me?”

Galadriel had asked something similar of him not an hour before. “We were never close,” she’d said, “but he is still my cousin. Tell him that if only he can let go his pride, there is a place for him in the West.”

Círdan gave Elrond the same answer he’d given her. “I can try,” he said. “There is no guarantee he will listen.”

“I have a letter I wish him to have,” Elrond said, and withdrew a narrow tube from the depths of his robes. He pressed it into Círdan’s hands.

“I will make sure he gets it,” Círdan said. He could promise that much, at least.

-

It would not be the first time Círdan had gone to meet the last son of Fëanor with a pack of supplies, and Círdan doubted it would be the last.

Maglor was already waiting on the long stretch of beach they usually met at, down near the water’s edge, a plaintive skirl of melody tossed back toward the dunes by the wind.

Círdan set down his own pack before unloading the saddlebags from the blue mare he had brought with him. He groomed away the marks the leather straps had left on her fine hide, fed her an apple for a treat. While his horse rested, Círdan went about starting a fire.

These rare meetings were not usually an opportunity either of them used to speak overmuch with each other, but over the centuries, they had gotten in the habit of sharing a quiet meal together before parting ways once more. Círdan suspected that it was one of the few human interactions that Maglor could still count on.

The food was already starting to bubble in the pot when the distant music faded out, and Maglor trudged his way back up the beach to join him.

Círdan nodded briefly to the other man, and went back to tending the stew. Maglor sank into a crouch on the sand a few feet away. He looked ragged and worn, as he always did by the time Círdan brought him new boots and clothing, but somehow, his usual gloom seemed worse this time around.

He dug into the pocket of his overcoat, and withdrew the message case from Elrond. Held it out to Maglor. “Here,” he said.

“What is this,” Maglor said dubiously, even as he plucked it from Círdan’s hand.

“I do not know if you knew it, but the ship of the Ring-bearers sailed last week,” he said.

Maglor’s mouth pursed tight. “I knew,” he said quietly. “I felt it, when Artanis left these lands.”

“Then you know that Elrond sailed with her,” Círdan said.

Maglor’s nod was short and curt.

“He wanted you to have this,” Círdan said, nodding at the message tube.

Maglor drew the tube in and pressed it briefly to his chest, over his heart, before slipping it away somewhere beneath his clothes.

“Both of them asked something of me, before they left,” Círdan said after another moment. “I wonder if you know what it is.”

“I do not deserve the passage West, though their sentimental thoughts might beg differently,” Maglor said.

Círdan sighed. That had been what he’d thought Maglor would say.

It annoyed him, to have done it for someone who was set on refusing no matter what, but he’d given his word, and he would discharge his duty properly.

“That is only how you feel,” he said. “It is not the truth of your situation.”

“I’m sure the Valar are eager to allow a thrice-damned murderer back across the Seas,” Maglor said.

“I spoke to Ulmo,” Círdan said. Not long after the grey sails had disappeared beyond the horizon, he’d called out, seeking an answer, and been granted one. “If you would be willing to accept judgment and swear to make amends, you could return home.”

“Aman is no longer my home,” Maglor said. “Not since I took my father’s Oath. And I will swear no more oaths.”

“Even ones meant to heal ancient wounds?”

“I will swear nothing in the name of the Valar or the One,” Maglor said. “Not ever again.”

“You do not repent, then?”

“I have done nothing but repent for two long Ages,” Maglor said bitterly. “My heart is heavy with guilt and regret. If I knew how to make amends without being forced to grovel before the Valar, I would do it.”

“Your pride still keeps you prisoner,” Círdan said.

“My dislike of being treated with great condescension and little empathy limits my options, not my pride,” Maglor answered, proudly.

This line of logic was going nowhere, fast. Círdan decided to let it go for the time being. Perhaps Elrond would have words to touch Maglor’s heart in a way that Círdan could not.

“Only know that you have the option, and that a few at least will be thinking of you kindly on the Hither Shores,” Círdan said.

They were silent, then, as they ate sitting side by side, not looking at each other, simply existing in each other’s company. Círdan’s shoulder bumped into Maglor’s every few seconds, a not unwelcome reminder of the solid warm presence beside him.

Maglor was frustrating and irritating, but he was one of the few people left on these shores who understood Círdan on a deep level.

They were both the last remnants of a nearly forgotten Age, old and weary and tired of grief. They had lived through unimaginable violence and horror and loss, and come out the other side wounded, but in one piece. They’d both seen Morgoth fall. They’d both been there every time Sauron rose again, and every time he fell. They’d both lost nearly everyone they knew, and been left behind while the rest sailed into the West.

By chance, they had both seen the other at their weakest and worst. Círdan and Maglor knew each other in ways that were not always easy to think about, and had seen parts of each other that they would probably rather not have. There were many times when Círdan wasn’t sure if he actually even liked the other man, but he had not questioned the fact that they were comfortable with each other in a very long time.

“Could you cut my hair?” Maglor asked abruptly, laying his spoon down as he finished eating.

Círdan blinked at him, taken aback.

Elves usually only willingly cut their hair when they were in mourning. Yet for all Maglor’s musical lamenting, his hair was long enough that, braided, it fell most of the way down his back. When loose, Círdan judged that it would likely reach to his hips.

But it was not his place to question Maglor’s motives. They knew each other well, but they were not friends.

“I could,” he said. He always carried shears with him, just in case he needed something with more precision than a knife. “Show me how much you want taken off.”

Maglor pulled his braid over his shoulder, and held it out. “Here,” he said, fingers sliding to a point that would leave his hair resting just above his shoulders.

Círdan almost said something at that. But he held his tongue, and nodded instead.

He found the shears, and settled down onto a large driftwood log some little distance from the fire. He gestured for Maglor to settle on the sand in front of him.

Maglor sat cross-legged before him, shoulders stiff, posture carefully and fully upright.

The braid went in three quick snips, and Círdan used his fingers to unravel the remainder, leaving an uneven line of hair draped across Maglor’s shoulders. He set to work evening it out, taking the first section, checking the length, and cutting so that it would sit just as Maglor had asked.

Maglor’s hair was thick and heavy with salt, and it took some effort to work through the tangles that had appeared in his hair in spite of it being bound and braided, but Círdan had dealt with worse. And it was pleasant, to have another’s hair running through his fingers. It had been a very long time since Círdan had had the privilege of joining in with the social grooming that so many Elves engaged in.

It had likely been longer still for Maglor. He shuddered every time Círdan’s hands ran over and through his hair, back arching with each stroke. When Círdan’s fingers brushed his scalp, he pushed back into it like a cat chasing a caress, instinctive and involuntary, eyes half-lidding with an expression of overwhelmed pleasure.

Círdan had never seen a clearer case of touch starvation in his life. He gentled his touch, hoping to keep from overwhelming him further, but it was difficult to see what, if any, effect it had when Maglor was already all but a puddle of contentment from the light brusque touches.

It was rare to see Maglor so relaxed and content. Círdan kept combing his fingers through his hair, steady and firm, working carefully at the tangles that grew rarer and rarer as his fingers kept moving.

Maglor let out voiceless moan of appreciation.

Círdan jerked his hands back, and picked up the shears once more to make the last few cuts.

A rough-palmed hand on his wrist drew his free hand back to Maglor’s head. “Please,” he said - begged.

Círdan cupped the side of his head briefly in compromise as he finished up Maglor’s haircut, before setting the shears aside. Maglor leaned into his touch, hand still curled around Círdan’s wrist, and sighed, soft and strangely content.

Círdan hesitated, then let his thumb stroke slow and soothing over the curve of his skull, brushing through soft dark hair that bore a distinct curl now that it was short, and freed from braids. He watched as Maglor’s eyes fluttered closed, lashes soft against too-sharp cheekbones.

Like this, languid and relaxed, it was easy to see the evidence of old beauty in his weathered and worn features. Each caress seemed to soften him further, revealing reminders of the bold sensual creature Maglor had once been, and Círdan found himself fascinated to see how much change his touch had wrought in him.

Maglor turned his face into Círdan’s hand, still clasping his wrist, and drew it down to his mouth.

Círdan felt himself go hot at the sensation of Maglor’s searing kiss to the palm of his hand. It took everything he had to remain relaxed and apparently unmoved, when all his hand wanted to do was clench in on itself, to clench itself in Maglor’s hair and draw him in close.

Maglor kissed his palm again, near the base of his thumb, before releasing his hand. Círdan gave an internal sigh of relief as he withdrew his hand. His heart rabbited in his throat.

But a moment later, Círdan found himself with Maglor kneeling between his thighs, hands resting just above his knees, fingers kneading at his flesh. Círdan’s breath caught at the intensity of the look burning in Maglor’s eyes, and he swallowed hard. This was not something he had ever prepared himself to face.

“Let me touch you, too,” Maglor said, and surged upwards to catch Círdan’s mouth with his own.

His mouth was warm and soft against Círdan’s, lips insistent, needy, coaxing and urging out the flickers of desire that had been simmering in the pit of Círdan’s belly since the first time Maglor had moaned at his touch.

They parted for breath, Círdan more reluctant than he would have dreamed before the kiss.

“Let me?” Maglor said, voice a low sensuous murmur, hands caressing up and down his thighs. “Círdan, let me? I want to.”

Círdan did not have the words to refuse him. They were trapped in his throat, struggling not to be overwhelmed by the baser thoughts and instincts roused by Maglor’s lips and heated gaze, and losing ground fast. Wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to refuse him.

He couldn’t think of the last time someone had looked at him like that, with such intense, real desire. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had wanted him. He’d forgotten how intoxicating it felt, how it left him breathless and aching with need of his own.

He’d forgotten how good it felt - how much he liked it.

Whatever Maglor wanted from him in this moment, he could have.

He nodded.

Maglor leaned in, a smug little half-smile on his lips as he insinuated himself further between Círdan’s thighs. His hands slid up to Círdan’s hips, where they found his belt, and began to work it open. Círdan couldn’t tear his eyes away from where Maglor’s long elegant fingers were working to deftly unknot and loosen his trousers.

The first touch of Maglor’s hand on his prick was like lightning down his spine, and the heat of his mouth, when he took him in, was liquid fire. He buried his hands in Maglor’s freshly shorn hair just to have something to hang on to, and he felt Maglor try to grin around his cock before sucking him down once more.

It was obscene, the way he looked with his mouth wrapped around Círdan’s cock, cheeks flushed and hollowing slightly as he moved over him, lips sliding up and down his rapidly hardening length. Círdan couldn’t help but stare, riveted, as Maglor swallowed him down again and again, moaning, one hand pressed to the front of his own worn trousers, cupping and caressing himself through the fabric.

Maglor withdrew, breathing raggedly, eyes wide and dilated with desire, lips swollen and red from the friction, and before he knew what he was doing, Círdan found himself leaning down and forward to kiss him - to lick into his mouth, and taste himself on Maglor’s tongue, his own breath coming ragged and fast.

Elbereth help him, he didn’t think he’d ever been so hard in his life.

Maglor surged up and off his haunches, kissing back fierce and hungry, teeth dragging and nipping at his lips as though he wanted to devour Círdan. His arms hooked themselves around Círdan’s neck, and dragged him down off the log and into his lap.

“Touch me,” Maglor breathed against his mouth, hips lifting once, twice, three times, four, to press up against Círdan’s thighs. “Círdan, please, touch me -”

Oh Elbereth! the way his name sounded on his lips, with Maglor’s glorious voice husky with want and from taking Círdan down his throat. It made the coals in the pit of his stomach kindle to life, flame coming up and scorching through his veins.

He slid his hands between them, and set them to the task of loosening Maglor’s trousers far enough for him to reach inside.

Maglor throbbed hotly in his hand, skin velvet-soft over a core of what felt like steel. He felt himself start throbbing in sympathy as he began to stroke him, slow and steady. Maglor keened, and hitched his hips up into Círdan’s touch, fingers digging into his shoulders with each pass of his hand.

Círdan pressed their foreheads together as he rolled the pad of his thumb around the head of Maglor’s cock, rubbing it now and then across his rapidly dampening slit.

“Like this?” Círdan said, voice low. “Is it good like this, Maglor?”

“Yes, yes, oh Elbereth I _have_ to fuck you,” Maglor said breathlessly, and surged forward to take Círdan’s mouth in another feverish kiss.

Círdan couldn’t help but groan into the kiss, a flush of heat going through him at the thought. “Yes,” he found himself saying. “Yes, I want that.”

Maglor’s hand joined his and guided it until he could close them both around their erections, pressing them firmly together. Began urging him to stroke with him, slow and deliberate, fanning the smouldering desire in him back up to full flame.

Mouths locked together, Maglor’s free hand twined itself into Círdan’s hair, other hands wrapped together and moving firm and sure around their cocks, stroking, squeezing, twisting. The stimulation was almost too much to bear.

Sharing shallow panting breath between kisses, Maglor said: “Take your clothes off.”

He didn’t take his hands off of Círdan, however, and it was only with reluctance that Círdan removed their hands from between them. He rocked backward, and stood somewhat clumsily, with his trousers still shoved down to his thighs.

“Only if you do, too,” he said.

Maglor tilted his head in acknowledgement and began pulling off his clothing layer by layer.

Círdan undressed swift and business-like, setting his clothes aside on a driftwood log, boots on the sand before it. That taken care of, he took both his and Maglor’s cloaks and laid them out on the sand, back from the fire, and then unrolled his bedroll atop them both.

When he looked back to see what progress Maglor had made, it was to find him sitting back, naked only from the waist up, touching himself as he watched Círdan work.

“I thought you wanted to fuck me,” Círdan said.

“You’re strangely alluring when you do mundane things naked,” Maglor said, gaze intense enough to bring heat back to Círdan’s ears. But even as he spoke, he pushed himself to his feet, kicked off his boots, and slid trousers and smalls down to his ankles.

Naked at last, Maglor stepped out of his clothing and prowled forward, eyes dark and locked on Círdan, his cock heavy, flushed, and bobbing ridiculously before him with every step. Círdan’s own cock twitched at the sight, harder than he had been in a very long time.

He held out the little jar of slick, bringing it forth from where he’d held it half-hidden behind him, fingers curled around it.

Maglor nearly purred when he took possession of the jar from Círdan. He dropped a hand on Círdan’s shoulder, and pressed down. “Hands and knees,” he said. “Want to see you spread yourself for me.”

Círdan sank down to his knees on the makeshift pallet, and bent forward with another press of Maglor’s hand, until his elbows rested upon the ground.

Then Maglor was kneeling behind him, knees pressed between his, forcing his legs further apart. One hand squeezed and caressed at his buttocks and hip, while the other, slippery with slick, probed between his cheeks, seeking out his hole. When his fingers found it, they circled and rubbed at the rim of it, slow and soothing, yet teasing, touching him intimately and unceasingly, alternating pressure against his hole until Círdan was pushing insistently back into his touch, joints almost liquid with arousal.

And then Círdan felt his hot breath against his skin, and he clenched up involuntarily as Maglor leaned down and in and pressed a wet tonguing kiss to his hole.

He swore. Maglor laughed as he withdrew for a breath, then dove back in and followed it up with another of the same kind, tongue licking into him as though tasting something worth savouring. Círdan’s fingers curled tightly into the fabric beneath him, face hot, as Maglor set about sucking and laving every inch of flesh between his buttocks, the sensation almost unbearably, toe-curlingly intimate. He squeezed his eyes shut, lower half near liquid with heat and unexpected pleasure.

And then Maglor withdrew once more, and instead of a tongue, there were fingers, sinking into him, and Círdan felt himself open around them, thighs turning to jelly as they pushed in deeper and deeper, before starting to fuck their way in and out.

Maglor’s erection rubbed and pressed against his thigh, his breath hot on Círdan’s spine, as he slowly worked Círdan open with his fingers. Círdan clenched his fingers in the fabric beneath him in an attempt not to push back into the delicious friction, or writhe on Maglor’s fingers like an animal in heat. Of course Maglor had talented hands; of course he knew what he was doing when it came to using them to give pleasure.

Fingers buried to the second knuckle crooked inside of him, and began moving in slow undulating waves. Círdan shut his eyes and breathed shakily. His cock jerked hard, once, twice, completely untouched, and Círdan had to brace himself against the threat of his oncoming orgasm. It was too soon. He had more control than this. One man with unfairly talented fingers would not be enough to undo him.

Still -

“Please,” Círdan said through gritted teeth. He refused to beg, but the heat and need being generated in his core was rising to unbearable levels. “I can take it.”

“I’m sure you can,” Maglor said, hand still moving. He sounded pleased - no, smug. The bastard knew full well what he was doing to him. He was playing with him. “But I am enjoying myself. How many of my fingers do you think you can take, I wonder? All of them?”

Círdan made himself take a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “If you make me come on your fingers,” he said as coolly as he could manage, “I am going to get dressed and bid you farewell without giving you a chance to get yours.”

Maglor’s fingers stilled. A moment later, they withdrew, leaving Círdan feeling wet and empty and open.

“You make a compelling argument,” Maglor said.

The sound of slick being applied to skin, and then a blunt wide point of pressure was slipped into place against his wet hole.

Círdan made himself relax, and then Maglor pressed himself forward, and in.

His first few thrusts were tentative, focused on burying himself deeper inside Círdan with each push forward, until he was lodged hilt-deep and snug in Círdan’s ass. Maglor’s hands squeezed at his hips as he paused there, panting slightly.

“Is that all?” Círdan said, just managing to hide the strain in his voice. “That’s disappointing.”

“I haven’t even started yet,” Maglor said, gripping his sides before fucking in bruisingly hard.

Círdan’s back arched at the burst of intense sensation, and he let out a sharp punched breath as Maglor held him in place and kept fucking him, sharp and deep.

“How’s that feel?” Maglor said, leaning down over him to nip at his shoulder with his teeth. “Is this enough for you? Do you want more?” He bit harder at Círdan’s neck, fingers digging into his sides. “ _Elbereth_ , you feel so good on me. I’m going to wreck you, my Shipwright.”

“I am not yours,” Círdan managed, as Maglor kissed and nipped his way down his spine.

“You are for as long as I have you here like this,” Maglor said smugly, and drove his hips pointedly forward once more.

A hand slid down Círdan’s stomach to wrap around his cock, tugging pleasure from his sex with every stroke, until Círdan did not know whether to push back into the cradle of Maglor’s hips and onto his rigid cock, or forward into the circle of his expert fingers.

“Tell me who you belong to,” Maglor murmured in his ear.

“Myself,” Círdan said firmly, even as Maglor rolled his hips into him in a way that made his cock brush over his prostate, once, twice, three times -

Círdan let out an involuntary moan, and rocked backwards, grinding his own hips up against Maglor’s, taking him deeper inside with every push.

“ _Yes_ ,” Maglor breathed, sounding pleased, hands resting warm and firm on his waist. “Just like that. Show me how badly you want it.”

Círdan’s fingers dug into the blankets beneath him as Maglor drove into him again and again, fucking the breath out of him with every stroke, and he rocked backwards to meet each one, hips slapping together, air released from his lungs in constant short punched breaths of pleasure.

“I’m getting close,” Maglor said, raggedly, hips slowly momentarily. “You?”

“Touch me again and I will be,” Círdan said.

“First, tell me who you belong to,” Maglor said, a growing smirk audible in his voice.

“Myself,” Círdan said again, annoyed. He wanted Maglor to shut up and focus on finishing the both of them off. He ought to have known that he would prefer to hear himself talk over having an orgasm.

“Let’s try that again, shall we?” Maglor said, soft and sultry in his ear, and Círdan swallowed a noise of complaint as Maglor’s hips slowed again to an excruciatingly inadequate teasing slide back and forth. “Who do you belong to, my Shipwright? Remember, you don’t get to come until you give me the right answer.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Círdan said through clenched teeth.

“Maybe next time, darling,” Maglor all but purred. “I bet you would like that. Having me on my back, spread out beneath you, splitting me open on that lovely fat cock, wrenching cries from my throat. I wonder what sounds you’ll get me to make, then, hm? Even I can’t say for sure. No one’s ever been allowed to take me like that before.”

He bent his head, and his teeth scraped over Círdan’s shoulder, sending a shudder through him. “Maybe I’ll let you be the first,” he breathed against his ear, and Círdan had to close his eyes and shudder again at the sensation and at the lewd images springing to life in his mind from Maglor’s filthy words. “But you have to tell me who your own gorgeous arse belongs to before that ever happens.” A sharp singular thrust of his hips.

In any other situation, Círdan’s store of patience could outlast any ten others’. In any other situation, he would not even consider bending to Maglor’s ego. But with his cock buried to the hilt in Círdan, barely moving, hands holding his hips in place to prevent him from fucking himself on Maglor instead, he found patience and reason quickly unravelling. His whole body was consumed with the primal desire to come, and it was being denied him, with just enough stimulation to keep the possibility within reach.

“ _Please_ , just let me come.”

“I will,” Maglor said. “When you tell me what I want to hear.” He alternated kissing and nipping his way up the side of Círdan’s neck to his pulse point, latching on to suck a bruise into his skin when he reached his destination. “So?” he murmured into his neck. “What’s your answer?”

One of Maglor’s hands left his waist to slide around over his belly and then down between his legs. It curled possessively around Círdan’s cock, and began to stroke pleasure into him. It wasn’t long before Círdan was on edge again and thrumming with the need to come. He was so close. Just a few strokes more -

“Well?” Maglor said, and made to pull away entirely.

“No - wait - _wait_ \- yours,” Círdan found himself gasping out, half begging. “Yours, it’s yours - I’m yours -”

A twist of Maglor’s wrist and a deep stroke of his cock over his prostate, and Círdan was flying over the edge into bliss, gasping with its suddenness. His orgasm was still rolling through him when he felt Maglor jerk and spill inside him with the clenching of his hole around him.

Círdan’s arms gave out, and he let himself drop down onto the pallet, whole body abuzz with pleasure. Maglor followed almost immediately, draping himself limply over his back, breathing heavily, cock still twitching inside him.

-

Círdan checked his horse’s saddle one last time as Maglor stood by, wrapped in his new cloak, looking languid and sated.

“Ready to go?” Maglor said, as Círdan straightened and turned to face him.

“Yes,” Círdan said.

“I shall see you in a few years, I suppose,” Maglor said, careless and diffident.

“If you need anything, you know where to find me,” Círdan said. He swung up and into the saddle, restraining himself from wincing outwardly at the dull flare of discomfort at the base of his spine as he settled his weight into place.

Maglor waved a dismissive hand. “Farewell.”

-

To most people, their relationship would make no sense. But it didn’t need to, because it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. It made sense to the two of them, for who and what they were.

What they were was a pair of lonely old men who had lost far too much - that was all. Taking comfort where it could be found was no sin, Círdan knew, and he would not let himself feel ashamed of the times when he and Maglor met, and came together.

There was little enough that Círdan took for himself. He loved the Sea still and always, and he still rejoiced in the shaping and building of ships - but they were both aspects of his duties to Ulmo, and to his fellow Eldar, and so not fully his alone.

A taste of selfish pleasure every few years was not much in the greater scale of things.

-

Their relationship stopped making sense the day Círdan came home from the shipyard to find Maglor asleep on his hearth like some sort of stray cat.

Círdan stopped in the doorway when he saw him there, taken aback. Maglor lay curled in on himself, back to the banked coals, swords laid neatly aside on the floor beside him, within easy reach, as though he expected to be attacked even within the walls of Círdan’s home. His half-empty pack was tucked under his head as a pillow.

Dark smudges marred the skin beneath his unblinking and unseeing eyes, and his body remained tense even in reverie. He was thinner than he ought to be, judging by how his clothes hung off him, how much sharper the lines of his face and body were.

Maglor had never come to him before. They had always met out in the Wilds, after an exchange between Círdan’s hawk and Maglor’s gull, far from civilization and the chance of being discovered by anyone else.

So what had brought him here today?

Círdan stepped forward and to the left, deliberately making the floor creak loudly underfoot.

Maglor shot up in an instant, sword in hand and braced to defend himself before he was even fully on his feet.

Then he seemed to register what had woken him, and his blade lowered immediately.

“Círdan,” he said, oddly subdued.

“Maglor,” Círdan acknowledged, and stepped fully into the room. “What brings you here?”

“Do I have to have a reason?” Maglor said.

“We’ve known each other for three Ages, and you’ve never deigned to come visit me before,” Círdan said. “It seems logical to assume.”

Maglor bit at his lower lip, gaze flickering to Círdan’s face and then away again, over and over. He opened his mouth.

Faltered, shut it. Took a deep breath, and tried again. He seemed to be struggling, though over what, Círdan could only imagine.

There was a strange look in his eyes, something like reluctance and fear clouding them for a moment before it darted away, along with Maglor’s gaze.

“It’s nothing,” Maglor said at last. “It just seemed as though it were time.”

“I see,” Círdan said. He wasn’t sure he believed it, but it was clear that he would be getting nothing out of Maglor today, willingly.

“Can I stay?” Maglor said abruptly. “Just for a little while.”

“Yes,” Círdan said. “If that’s what you want.”

Maglor stepped forward, and wrapped his arms around Círdan’s neck. His eyes were dark and intent as he searched Círdan’s, as though seeking to read his very _fëa._

Then he tightened the circle of his arms, and drew Círdan down into a kiss, fierce but chaste.

“I want,” Maglor said against his lips, eyes hooded and bright with desire.

“Oh,” said Círdan, taken aback.

Maglor kissed him again, fiercer still, and heated, no longer chaste.

“All right,” Círdan said, a little breathlessly, when Maglor released him. “Yes, all right, then.” And he bent his head to slot his mouth into place against Maglor’s.

Maglor's mouth was fierce, insistent upon his, first coaxing him to open up, then demanding. Círdan gave way, and kissed him back, parting his lips to accept a deeper kiss; and Maglor licked languid and sensual into him, sending sparks shuddering off through his veins.

Círdan was still not quite sure why Maglor was here, but it was difficult to care with Maglor kissing away every shred of sense in him, leaving only heat and desire behind.

Maglor broke away briefly, just far enough for him to push Círdan backwards until the backs of his knees hit the sofa, dropping him onto the cushions. He straddled him then, one knee on either side of his thighs, arms draped across his shoulders, before diving back in to take Círdan's mouth with his own once more.

His fingers ran through Círdan's hair, smoothed over his shoulders; ran down the lines of his neck and jaw, making him shiver, as his lips continued to move against Círdan's. They kissed, Círdan licking into Maglor’s mouth, hands coming up to tangle themselves in his hair, bury themselves deep in salt-thick softness.

Maglor moaned into his mouth as Círdan gripped his hair tighter, and his hips jerkily rocked forward against Círdan's.

Heat flared high at the point of contact, and Círdan found his own hips beginning to move in response, a slow subtle roll to meet and match Maglor's movements as they kept kissing, messier now, breaths coming faster between them. Maglor's hands were on the move again, stroking over skin until they found another point that made Círdan shiver.

"Like that?" Maglor murmured against his lips, low and intense. Círdan could feel his arousal growing against his stomach, pulsing hot and excited. It sent another flush of heat running through his own veins, jolting down through him to pool low in his belly, awakening his own desire. It had been far too long since the last time they had done this; his defenses were low, and the thought of resisting Maglor's advances did not even cross his mind. It felt so good, to kiss and be kissed, to touch another's warm wanting body. The times they met each other in the Wilds were too few and far between.

"Yes," Círdan breathed, and kissed him, slow and deep, wanting nothing but to give back the pleasure he was being given. "Let me touch you?"

"Please," Maglor said, and pressed in closer, hips rubbing restless and insistent up against Círdan’s, trapping their erections between the friction of their stomachs.

They kissed and ground their hips together like this until they both came - Maglor first, shuddering delightfully in Círdan’s lap, Círdan following a few moments later.

After, Maglor dropped his head onto Círdan’s shoulder, and draped his arms around his neck. “Missed this,” Maglor said quietly.

Círdan nodded in silent agreement, and threaded his fingers through Maglor’s hair.

-

In the days to follow, Círdan quietly began seeking out any rumours that might prove why Maglor had come to him out of the blue like that when he never had before. Stories of strange happenings, a sighting, a near-capture - anything.

But there was nothing. No word of attacks or marauders, no whisper of formless evil in the hills, no rumour of petty thievery or even manslaughter that might mean that Maglor was hiding out from his own misdeeds.

Not that he meant to turn Maglor away even should something turn up. Círdan just liked to know what he was dealing with. It wasn’t in Círdan to turn away anyone in need, even if he could not quite figure out what that need was.

And yet for all he tried, Maglor’s mood only seemed to grow worse, gloomier and even more restless - jumpy, even, as he took to startling whenever Círdan reached out for him - as the days went by. He prowled around Círdan’s home like a cat on the hunt, hackles raised, and more than once Círdan caught him looking at him like he might vanish at any moment. Something was clearly wrong, even if no amount of coaxing could make Maglor tell him why. But either Maglor would tell him in time, or he wouldn’t, and there was no use forcing the matter.

For all his aloofness during the day, however, at night Maglor would crawl into bed with Círdan as though it were a foregone conclusion that he was welcome there.

The most difficult part was that Círdan could not say with any honesty that he _wasn’t_ welcome. For the easiest part of the whole situation was allowing Maglor to press their bodies together, and reaching out to pleasure each other before falling asleep, limbs entangled. It was easy, to allow Maglor that physical intimacy; easy - surprisingly - to become accustomed to wrapping his arms around him, and falling asleep like that.

It was easy to set aside his wonderings and his doubts, and simply accept circumstances as they appeared, if it meant sharing bed and body with Maglor most nights. It was easy to grow accustomed, even reliant, on having his warmth and weight pressed close beside him.

And so Círdan let the matter go after the first month of this, and did not mention it again.

-


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was high in the cloudless sky when Círdan noticed the unusual figure winding its way towards him, striding sure and confident through the piles of lumber, and the scattered half-built hulls, long abandoned by the other shipwrights that had once made up the shipyard. 

For many years now, it had only been Círdan. He’d sent off the last of his stalwart followers some time ago, and now waited only for the occasional wild Silvan and reluctant Sinda to come to his harbour from out of the Wilds. 

Círdan did not need to see the face of his visitor to know exactly who he was, and he felt his heart lighten at the sight of him. 

Ossë in his favoured Elven form was as tall as Thingol once was, hair a shimmering blue-green so deep it was nearly black, braided and pinned with a rainbow of pearls and glittering gems from the beaches of Aman, eyes large and abyss-dark and penetrating, smile broad and bright, teeth just a little bit too sharp and a few too many - beautiful, but decidedly  _ other. _

It was rare that he deigned to leave the ocean and walk on land among the Children of Iluvatar, and Círdan wondered what it was that had brought him forth this time. His face bore a look of some concern, unusual in a face most often given to laughter and rage.

Círdan clambered out of his most current hull, and dropped to the ground before striding forward to greet his old friend.

“Ossë! What news?” he called, dusting his hands off on the front of his work apron before clasping Ossë’s hands in his, and drawing him forward into a quick embrace.

“Where is your ship?” Ossë said as they parted, brow furrowing as he scanned the shipyard. “I saw none ready down by the wharf. I see none even close to being ready here. What keeps you lingering on these shores when time grows ever scarcer? You have waited so long and so patiently for that which you have desired, and been denied since the first. Do you no longer wish to sail to Aman? I had thought to see you sail within the first month after Ulmo sent his messenger.”

“What messenger?” Círdan said, bewildered.

And then it clicked.

-

Maglor lounged on the sofa, lapdesk covered in papers, tapping his staff-drawing pen against his lips, when Círdan came home.

Part of him could not help but soften at the familiar sight of his lover at work, eyes lingering on his pensive form. Maglor was still beautiful, for all his long years of lonely suffering, still vivid and warm, pert and mischievous, witty and sharp; and part of Círdan had grown quite fond of him, in spite of himself.

The rest of Círdan was not so inclined towards leniency and forgiveness.

“I had a very interesting visitor today,” he said, shutting the front door behind him. “Would you care to guess who that was?”

Maglor looked up from his music, gaze still absent, but smiling softly. “Should I know?” he said. “There are few left on these shores that I would deem ‘interesting,’ after all.” He set the lapdesk aside, made to rise and greet him.

Something on Círdan’s face stopped him before he got very far. Maglor’s smile faded. “Is everything all right?”

“I thought I could trust you,” Círdan said, as steadily as he could manage, and Maglor’s smile vanished entirely.

“Ten years,” Círdan said. “You have had the last  _ ten years _ to give me Ulmo’s message, and I had to find out from Ossë, this very afternoon, with not even a month left until the Straight Way will shut forever.”

Maglor had gone very pale and very still, and would not meet Círdan’s eyes.

“Why did you never tell me?”

Maglor flinched at the question, but said nothing.

“Maglor, please, I beg of you - just tell me why.”

“I know how selfish it was,” Maglor said, stiff, almost trembling. “I know. Nothing you can say will make me feel more shame than I already do.”

“Then why do it anyway?” Círdan said. 

Maglor looked away, staring at his feet, hands clenching into fists at his sides.

“Maglor -  _ why _ ?” Círdan pressed.

There were tears trickling down Maglor’s cheeks now, and he swallowed hard, and would not meet his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“If you were sorry, you would not have done this in the first place,” Círdan said. “You are sorry only because you have been found out.”

“That’s not true!” Maglor cried out, as though it were torn from him. He reached out, frantic, and grasped at the front of Círdan’s shirt, eyes wide and anxious. “I never wanted to hurt you. I never thought the Valar would close the Way. I didn’t know. If I’d thought they would ever risk leaving you behind here, I would have spoken.”

Círdan’s throat was so tight and tense he could barely breathe without pain. He didn’t know what to think. His insight - his foresight - was no help to him here. All that he had as evidence were Maglor’s tears and denials, and the message he had withheld even as he confessed to knowing better.

“I have to sail out by tomorrow morning if I hope to reach the Straight Road in time,” Círdan said at last, when it became clear that Maglor had no more to say. “You have not been allowed passage West, and so I must leave you here.”

“ _ Círdan _ ,” Maglor said, miserable.

Círdan took a deep breath. “I have to pack,” he said, and strode off stiffly towards his chambers.

-

Círdan couldn’t sleep. He lay awake and restless in his bare room, staring at the ceiling, thoughts darting about quick as minnows. 

Half of them had already sprinted ahead, to the day to come, and the voyage ahead; running eagerly, desperately, towards the shores of far Aman. Half of them lay behind, on all he had seen and known in his long years in Endor, every person he had loved and lost, the joys and grief and suffering he had lived through; everything he had survived.

And woven amongst all of those thoughts were thoughts of Maglor, at this moment lying downstairs in front of the hearth, curled in on himself as though protecting his wounded core.

Círdan had no pity for his distress; he had brought it upon himself with his selfish and thoughtless lies. What else had he thought would happen? Círdan had always been going to find out, one way or another. 

Had Maglor expected that it might have gone any better if Ossë had not come, and it had been years from now that he’d learned the truth? Had he planned to keep lying to Círdan as they worked side by side, and tentatively tried to build some kind of life together? He was a fool. A betrayer of Círdan’s trust. He’d accepted Maglor at his word, expected equal consideration in turn, and been repaid with this. 

Maglor’s lie had nearly kept him from the very thing he had longed for most of his adult life. It shouldn’t - didn’t - matter why he’d done it. Not for something this important. And yet.

And yet.

-

Círdan rose before the sun to prepare his ship for the journey. He had not the time or space to pack anything but the essentials, and a few mementoes of those long lost that he could not quite bear to part with. It didn’t come out to much, in the end, for all the long years he had spent on these shores. It took far fewer trips than he had anticipated to bring everything down to the jetty and load it on his little ship.

Maglor was still sleeping when Círdan came back up to the house for the last time. He stood and watched him for a long still moment, not quite sure what his heart was telling him, only knowing that it burned in his chest, and that not all of it was because of anger.

He’d given himself to Maglor for over ten years. It was barely a drop in the bucket that was his many years of life - and yet even so, it was a period that had irrevocably changed him. 

Even knowing that Maglor had lied to him and deceived him for his own selfish desires, Círdan’s heart still panged sharply at the thought of leaving him for good.

It would be easier if he just slipped away with the dawn, avoiding the inevitable confrontation and goodbyes that would only leave them both in pain and grieving. It would be easier if Círdan didn’t have to look Maglor in the eyes, if he could avoid the heavy emotions that would inevitably well up and taint what was left of their relationship.

It would be easier, but it would be wrong. Círdan owed it to himself - to both of them - the closure of one last conversation.

So he stepped softly in, and touched Maglor’s shoulder, shaking him awake.

Maglor came awake slow and bleary-eyed. His expression shut down the moment he focused enough to be able to identify who had woken him.

“Círdan,” he said, tonelessly. “What is it?”

“I wanted to say good-bye,” Círdan said, and Maglor’s eyes widened.

He sat up hastily, and got to his feet, until he was standing before Círdan, clearly uncomfortable, but making intent eye contact, as though carefully memorizing every detail of him for the last time.

“You’re leaving, then,” he said. “As soon as we’re done here.”

“Yes,” Círdan said.

Maglor’s face tensed, grew stony, and almost impossible to read; but there was pain in his eyes. “I’m sorry for what I did,” he said, again. “I was selfish.”

“So you’ve said,” Círdan said. “But what’s done is done. I do not think there’s anything left to say on the matter.”

Maglor faltered. “You no longer wish to know why?”

“What could knowing possibly change, at this point?” Círdan said. He did not quite manage to hide his bitterness, and Maglor flinched.

“Nothing, I suppose,” Maglor said, and looked away, shoulders drooping. “You must leave, and I must stay; and anything else I have to say would only make the hurt worse, I’m sure.” He took a deep breath. “You’re right, of course. You always are.” A measure of bitterness in his own voice. “Well. I hope your journey is swift and safe. May Valinor be all you have ever longed for.”

Círdan took a deep breath of his own, and made an effort to stow away his anger. This was not how he wanted to leave things between them. Right now, he needed to give the both of them some closure. 

“Take care of yourself,” Círdan said. It came out cooler than it would have only a day before, no matter that he did mean it.

“Who else would I care for?” Maglor said, gaze downcast, mouth strained and sharp as it stretched into a bitter wry smile. “With you gone, I am the last of all the Elves of Middle Earth.”

“If you had not lied to me for ten years, I might have found a way past that,” Círdan said.

A tiny hitch of breath was the only sign that Maglor had heard him and understood, until Círdan got a look beneath his lashes at his eyes. They were dark and vulnerable with shock, and a kind of longing that Círdan recognized from millennia of living with it as background noise.

And Círdan thought he saw something, then, of what Maglor would likely never admit to. 

Maglor was afraid of his inevitable fate. For all his talk of poetic justice, he was terrified of the prospect of unbroken loneliness, of losing himself, of unbeing. He’d been clinging to Círdan like a half-drowned man clinging to a broken spar in a merciless sea - and now even that was being torn away from him.

He thought he might understand a little better why Maglor had lied. It didn’t make it right, or forgiven, but it sapped away the worst of his anger until Círdan was left feeling only tired and sad and resigned.

“Make this place your own,” Círdan said, somewhat impulsively, unable to bear the fragility behind his eyes for a moment longer. He could not offer Maglor much, but he could offer this. “Let it continue to be a refuge for you, as it has been for the last decade.”

Maglor’s eyes widened as he looked up at him.

“You would do that for me, even after what I did?” he said, voice soft and strange.

“It would give me some peace, knowing you have somewhere to go,” Círdan said.

Maglor’s face twisted.  “I do not want your pity.”

“Don’t be stupid. What I offer is not pity. You do not cease to matter to me simply because I am upset at what you did,” Círdan said.

Maglor’s eyes shimmered, overbright. And then he stepped forward, wrapped his arms around Círdan tightly, buried his face in his shoulder.

It took Círdan a moment to react, caught off guard; but then he put his arms around Maglor, and held him back.

Maglor mumbled something inaudible into Círdan’s shoulder, then withdrew slightly, and gave Círdan a wry smile.

Then he reached up, and drew Círdan’s head down so that he could kiss him, fierce and needy.

“Maglor,” Círdan said, a little reproachfully, when he managed to break the kiss.

“No, I know,” Maglor said with a sigh, and stepped back. “You won’t, even if you still wanted to.”

He bowed his head. Círdan’s heart clenched briefly in his chest before he reached out to touch his shoulders. He had never been very good at lying to himself. Regardless of how they had started out, Círdan could not imagine refusing Maglor this, one last time.

“And if I did?” Círdan said.

Maglor looked at him, eyes still too bright. “I could not ask for anything more.”

“We still have some little time,” Círdan said, and pulled him in close.

-

They kissed, and kissed, and kissed, sweet and deep and languid, Maglor's fingers running through Círdan's hair as they settled more solidly against each other on the bare mattress of Círdan’s bed. Maglor licked into his mouth as he rocked his hips against Círdan's thigh, his cock already throbbing and slick with arousal. Círdan's own cock slid against the crease between Maglor's thigh and his groin, brushing every now and again against Maglor's, sparks leaping up his nerves at each intimate contact. 

It would have been easy to lie there making out and rubbing against each other for hours, but Maglor apparently had a plan, kissing down Círdan's neck to tongue and suck at the hollow of his throat; then, he murmured, breathless: "Closer - I need to be closer to you, Círdan. Please, can we fuck now?"

"Yes," Círdan said, and rolled Maglor off him and onto his back, kissing him deeply as he slid his hand between them to stroke and fondle Maglor's sex, the sensitive hollow behind his balls. One of his fingertips found Maglor's hole, and began to tease him with it - not yet pressing in, just circling, applying pressure briefly before retreating, in a way that had always driven Círdan mad, and had in the past proven to have a similar effect on Maglor. "How do you want it?"

Maglor was panting, flushed, now that Círdan had released his mouth. He arched his back into Círdan's touch, pushing his hips down and closer to where Círdan was touching him. "I - I need you,” he said shakily. “I need you inside me. I want to feel you take me, want you to give it to me hard enough to keep me feeling it for a week. Can you do that, Círdan - can you make me feel you inside me like that?"

"I can try," Círdan said, and went for the jar of slick.

-

When he'd had enough of Maglor writhing on his fingers and shamelessly begging to be fucked - no, that was a lie, as giving Maglor such intense pleasure and hearing his musical voice cracking with frantic desire would never grow old, even if it had the chance to. Making Maglor beg for him was intoxicating, painfully arousing -

When Círdan could no longer hold back without risking himself spilling untouched over Maglor's skin, he slid home inside him at last, burying himself to the root, breathing raggedly as Maglor's body clenched and clutched, hot and greedy, at the intrusion. Maglor wrapped his arms and legs around Círdan, pulling him in deeper still, as deep as he could go, before catching Círdan's mouth with his own.

"Oh Elbereth, you feel so good," Maglor said against his lips, in between kisses, as Círdan began to move. "You feel  _ so good _ . I wish we never had to stop.” 

Círdan rested their foreheads together as their hips surged to meet again and again. "I’ll give you something you can think of for long years yet,” he promised. “You will never be able to forget this - forget me - this moment will be burned into your skin, your heart, for as long as you live.”

“ _ Yes,”  _ Maglor said, and his voice cracked in a sob. “Yes, Círdan, please, love,  _ please _ , make me yours. I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m  _ yours -” _

There was something there in his words that the rational part of Círdan's mind reached out and held onto, curious. But the rest of him was already back to focusing on pleasure; on giving it to Maglor until he wailed with it, and inevitably brought Círdan with him.

-

Maglor wrapped arms and legs around him in the aftermath, turned his face into Círdan’s neck. His hands were damp, grasping and clinging tightly - trembling, ever so slightly. Maglor had the steadiest, deftest hands of anyone Círdan knew. For all that Maglor had tried to pretend he was fine, it was clear that he was not.

Círdan pressed his lips to Maglor’s forehead, stroked one hand softly up and down his back.

“I do not know what I am going to do, without you,” Maglor said, barely audible.

“You have done without me for thousands of years,” Círdan said. “We have fallen into a comfortable pattern together, perhaps, but my presence is not intrinsic to your well-being. Nor is yours to mine.”

Maglor flinched, but said nothing.

“You are going to be fine,” Círdan said. He hoped so, anyway.

Maglor did not seem reassured, but he was rather prone to emotional dramatics. He would soon settle, however, and go about the life he’d chosen for himself again just fine. He feared the unknown, but as long as Maglor remained self-possessed and did not give into despair, he had a future full of people and things that Círdan could only imagine. If Círdan had been a few dozen millennia younger, and had not lived with the sea-longing in his heart for most of his life, he might even have considered staying, and finding out what that would look like together.

But he wasn’t; and he couldn’t, for his heart and his spirit could not take much more of the world than it had already borne for so long. His time here was done. He wanted his rest. Maglor no longer had a place in his life; their time together had come to its natural end.

They had been a pleasant distraction for each other for ten full years, and the odd encounter here and there prior. That was all. It had been nice, to have someone around who didn’t expect the world of him. Nice, to have someone to turn to for comfort when it was needed. Círdan would miss it, when he left Maglor behind.

But in the here and now, Maglor was -

Maglor was crying, very quietly, into his shoulder. 

Círdan’s heart softened at the sound of his stifled sniffling, and he shifted, drew him in closer. Kissed his forehead again.

“Do not regret what this has been,” Círdan said softly, into his hair. “I don’t. But we have always had different paths to tread. They just happened to intersect, for a while. We made our choices long ago. Now, all that can be is what is.”

Maglor did not answer; he just turned his face even further into Círdan’s chest, his shoulders stiff and tense, and shaking, very slightly.

-

Círdan was about to cast off when he saw Maglor tearing across the sand and onto the jetty, a wild look on his face.

“Círdan!” he called out breathlessly.  _ “Círdan!” _

The tide would soon change; Círdan could not linger any longer. He did not slow. They had said their goodbyes already, before Círdan had left him lying alone on his former bed; everything that needed to be said had been said. Maglor was only trying to prolong the inevitable, at this point.

Maglor skidded to a halt at the edge of the jetty as Círdan raised the sail and began to pull away. “Wait!” he begged. “Círdan, wait, please, I -!”

But what was there to wait for? Maglor would never bow submissively before the Valar and accept their judgment. Maglor could not come. He had made his decision; and Círdan had made his, long ago. This was the parting of their ways.

“I thought I could let you go without ever saying it, but I cannot!” Maglor cried out. “Forgive me; I cannot. Long have I kept silent, out of respect for you, knowing there was no point. But it means so much to me that I must speak, at last. Do not think less of me for it; I could not help it!”

“Maglor!” Círdan said sharply. He was already some distance from the jetty, the wind beginning to fill the bellying sail above. “Say what you mean to say, and stop waffling about.”

“I -” Maglor halted. Swallowed hard, looking more frightened in that moment that Círdan had ever seen him. “I love you,” he said, and his voice cracked and broke. 

Círdan’s breath hitched at his words, and he felt his eyes flare wide. For a moment, he forgot to pay attention to what he was doing, body stilling, hands white-knuckled around the line he grasped as he stared at Maglor.

He didn’t feel as surprised as he thought he should, however. Because hadn’t he known it all along, in his heart of hearts? He had only been able to dismiss and deny it in his waking thoughts for as long as he had because Maglor had never said as much aloud, before.

That was no longer the case. Maglor had done the one thing Círdan had not been prepared to face, and his words left Círdan almost short of breath, wrong-footed and not knowing which way to turn. 

Maglor, in love with him. It was not a comfortable revelation for someone whose feelings had never kindled in kind, who had known from the beginning that what they’d had was only ever temporary.

Even if there had been anything Círdan could really say in response, there was no time left in which to say it.

All he could do was to give him this, and hope it helped more than it hurt:

“In time, I might have loved you too.” The words were bittersweet on his tongue, and little better to Maglor’s ears, it seemed, for his eyes became wounds as Círdan spoke.

If Maglor had chosen a different path; if he hadn’t lied… well. There was no use thinking about what could never be.

Círdan’s little ship tugged at the line in his hands as the sail above bellied and caught the wind, filling and driving him forward and further away from the jetty. There were two ship-lengths between them now, and that space only grew with every passing second. 

And Círdan thought that perhaps he should have had better words to leave Maglor with, but none of them were coming to mind. Experience and wisdom failed him here, at the one thing in all his long years that he had never lived through.

Maglor reached out towards, him, grasping, yearning, and then withdrew, pulling his arm in against his chest, head bowing.

And that was the last Círdan saw of him, standing on the jetty, curled in on himself, watching Círdan sail away until the horizon separated them for the last time.

-


End file.
